


What is Expectation Without Love?

by karmicpunishment



Series: Tomathy Isn't It Fics [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Brotherly Love, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Implied/Referenced Parental Neglect, Sick Character, Sick Fic, they're brothers your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment
Summary: Tommy's never felt sicker, the house has never felt emptier and Wilbur's contact in his phone has never been so inviting.orTommy gets sick and Wilbur activates Big Brother Mode
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Tomathy Isn't It Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126091
Comments: 14
Kudos: 728
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	What is Expectation Without Love?

**Author's Note:**

> reminder:  
> the portrayal of tommy's parents in this fic is in NO way indicative of them in real life or what I think they are like. This is purely a work of self-indulgent fiction, and I'm sure they are lovely people and great parents in real life. If any people involved in this work (or any of my others) show discomfort in it, this will be taken down :-)  
> enjoy!

Tommy had never felt so warm before. Warm and shaky and nauseous and the pounding in his head thumping an unfamiliar tune, some rousing chorus instead of a sweet lullaby he would rather wish for. Sweat was clinging to his brow and threatening to drip in his eyes. Not that he’d be able to tell if it had, honestly, with the tears already there. He hated crying, hated the way he could always hear the voices of the kids at school and his parents in the back of his mind when he did. Could hear the kids taunting and ridiculing him for the trails on his cheeks and the salt burning his eyes. Could hear his parents scolding him for such an unseemly site, or for making so much noise. He just couldn’t help it. He was so warm, and his house was so empty and the sobs kept building in his throat and he couldn’t stop them.

He’d been crying a lot lately if he was being honest. Ever since his voice call with Wilbur, he’d felt like a draining dam. Wilbur told him it was okay to cry. That he wouldn’t laugh at him for it, or scold him, or hate him for it. Tommy didn’t really understand it. Wilbur wouldn't lie to him, he never had before, but how could that be the truth? Who could think that this was okay? That the tears dripping down his cheeks and the snot running from his nose and the hitching sobs penetrating the quiet of night were normal and fine and acceptable? It just couldn’t be true. Wilbur may be an adult, may be smart and kind and knowledgeable but he was still young. He could still be wrong. Of course his parents would be right instead. Wilbur probably thought it was true, and Tommy couldn’t blame him for that. How could he? He’d want to believe it too if he could. 

G-d, it was so warm. He’d kicked his blankets off earlier, in a desperate attempt to cool down or to change how he felt in some way but all it brought was the craving for the pressure, for the weight of the blankets pressing down on his body again. It had felt almost like a hug, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. He wanted one desperately. Normally he wouldn’t admit that, he was too big and too old to crave it, but as he lay here in the dark, boiling hot, tears pouring down hot cheeks from burning eyes, he wasn’t afraid to admit it. He wanted a hug, a friendly touch, a kind hand more than anything. He would burn like this forever if it meant he could fall into the embrace of someone else, someone with no mal intent and no anger in their eyes. But his cries increased for a moment at the thought, cause he knew, that would never happen. Who would want to hug him? To run their hand through his hair? To kiss his forehead and tell him it would be okay? No one would. It’s okay. Tommy wouldn’t want to do it either if he were them. He hadn’t earned it. (He wasn’t sure he ever could). 

He ignored the buzzing in the back of his mind, the voice in his ear that sounded a little too much like Wilbur, telling him he didn’t need to earn love. He had to ignore it. No use in listening to fairy tales. Wilbur wasn’t here, no one was here, and listening to falsities was no help. Of course he had to earn love. What point was there if it was freely given?, he could almost hear his mother spit out, frown on her face (of course, never a smile, not for him). Nothing in life is free, and affection is no exception. How can you expect someone to care for you if you aren’t good enough? No one cares for annoying tag-a-longs with no volume control, no filter on their mouth and no real talents. That's why his parents were seldom home, for why would they want to stay in a house with _him?_ There was a reason they preferred hotels and business trips and vacations far away, and it was him. He didn’t need to wonder about that fact. They’d told him that one. 

Love wasn’t free. Love was expensive in more than money. He wished affection was a monetary thing, something to be purchased or subscribed too. Maybe then he could have a hug or a smile or hand ruffling his hair once in a while. He had more than enough money after all. (He would give it all for his parents to say they were proud of him, or even for them to be home, for more than mere moments before fucking off to who knows where, until the cycle repeats).

There was no one here now, and there never would be. Who would want to stick around him, now or ever? _Wilbur would,_ his traitorous mind whispered, _Tubbo would. Phil, Niki, Technoblade, all of them would. They said they would._ They had said that, hadn’t they? After the disastrous recording session turned impromptu therapy with Wilbur, they had rescheduled for the next day and after a fun recording, they had a semi-emotional time of recording, of camera, no lights or mics or bits. Just them in a call, with comforting words and sweet laughs that were with him, not at him and kindness oozing out of every moment. They’d all told him they loved him. They’d all told him that they cared. Could it be true? His friends weren’t liars after all. But how could they love him? How could they care? What did they see in him, this gangly, loud, fucked up kid, that was worth their time? He didn’t understand...but maybe he could? He wanted to. Wilbur's words from a few weeks ago echoed in his mind _, “_ _Whatever it is, whatever you need to say, I’m listening and I will listen no matter what you tell me”,_ he’d told him this, swore it in fact. Swore that he’d be there whenever he needed him, rain, storm or shine. Dawn, midnight or any hour in between.

He shouldn’t call him. It was nearing 3 am ( _any hour in between, he said_ ). He wouldn’t want to deal with him, or his stupid problems ( _I will listen no matter what, he said_ ) The heat had hit a crescendo, sweat and tears mixing in an uncomfortable harmony and before he knew it his fingers had brought him to Wilbur's number in his phone. He sucked in a breath and thought about it. Could he call him right now? _Should_ he call him right now? He wished desperately, want curling in his gut, settling in the hearth fire in his stomach like a sleeping dragon, coiled over its precious hoard. He was always a selfish person at heart, he knew it. 

He hit the call button. It rang and rang and rang. The phone vibrated in his hand, limb shaking from the effort of holding it aloft. Shame built up in his chest, mixing with the nausea and heat and tears and threatening to pour out until the ringing stopped. And a voice, familiar and warm, with a different kind of heat then the one plaguing him throughout this night, spoke over the line.

“Tommy? Is everything okay?” Wilbur spoke over the phone, voice thick with abandoned sleep and clear concern hitting Tommys ears with the force of a freight train and suddenly everything was spilling out all over again. The heat, the pain, the shakiness in his limbs, and everything in between. Words about his parents, and the empty house. Words about school and the cold shoulders in the classroom. Words about the hunger pains in his stomach with no desire to satiate them. 

Words (more like sobs) spilled out about how he had gotten sick, and his parents had been gone for 5 days already, and he, like the idiot he was, had forgotten to restock on Nyquil after the last time he’d gotten sick, and g-d all he wanted to do was sleep. By the end of his spiel his words were more sob than speech, and his shoulders had joined his arms in shaking.  
“Tommy?” Wilbur's voice broke again though the fog in his brain, “Kiddo? Can you hear me?” 

“Yeah Wilby, I can hear you” He responded, hiccuping through tears to get the words across. 

“That's good Tommy, you are doing so well.” The praise burned in his chest, more tears springing to life in his tired eyes, though they felt different now. “Can you do a few things for me, please Toms?” He thought about it. His limbs felt like waterlogged wood, soaked through and heavy. His head hurt so bad and his throat was sore and his eyes burned. He didn’t want to do anything. He didn’t want to move from the bed. But he did want to make Wilbur happy. He did want to make Wilbur proud. He wanted that more than anything if he was being honest.

He nodded for a few seconds, then nearly let out a whine from the realization that of course Wilbur couldn’t see that. Wilbur wasn’t there, Wilbur was through the phone, Wilbur was in his own bed, in his own house, over a hundred miles and a three hour trip away. Wilbur wasn’t here. He let out an agreeing hum to his words, probably an awkwardly late response, but he was too tired to care. 

“Okay Toms, thank you. I just need you to do a few things for me okay? I need you to find a thermometer if you can and tell me what your temperature is. Can you do that for me please?”

Tommy didn’t understand why he needed to do that. He knew what his temperature was. It was hot, boiling, steaming, a million and one degrees is what it felt like and he didn’t need a thermometer to tell him that. He informed Wilbur of that fact and was answered with a fond chuckle from the other line.  
“I know Tommy, I know, but I need to know your exact temperature. I need to know if you have a fever or not, and if you do how serious it is. Fever’s can be dangerous, and all I want is for you to be safe, okay?” The tears were threatening to return full force at his words. When was the last time he’d heard something like that?

“Oh okay. Yeah I can do that, there's a thermometer in the bathroom up here I think. I can get up and get it.” If he was being honest, and in his own mind he was, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure if he could. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up the world seemed to sway like a rocking boat. His stomach flew up to his throat and the room seemed to pulse in the edges of his vision. He swallowed his stomach back down and straightened his shoulders. He could do this. He channeled a bit of his channel persona (he was a big man and strong and no little sickness could bring him down) and stepped out of his room and down the hall. One foot in front of the other. That's all he had to do. It will all be okay. Just one foot in front of the other. 

He reached the bathroom and flicked on the lights without a second thought. And immediately regretted it. The bright lights flickered on and sent daggers straight into his skull. A pained groan ripped out of his throat and he stumbled back, straight into the door frame, with a slight crash. 

“Tommy? Are you alright? Did you fall?” Wilbur's voice filtered to his ears, concern clear in his tone, even though the crackle of the speaker. Blinking away stars in his vision (and ignoring the flood of good warmth in his chest at the worry) he opened his mouth to send affirmations. 

“Yeah, I’m alright Big Man. No need to go mental. The lights were just...a bit brighter than I was expecting.” A fond chuckle broke through the speakers, and Tommy flushed a bit at the sound. If he wasn’t so tired (and didn’t feel like complete and utter shit) he’d probably be embarrassed at the thought of admitting his flub in front of Wilbur. But it was 3 am and he was alone in his house and had dried tear tracks on his face, and nothing in him wanted to work to muster up the emotion of embarrassment. 

He riffled through his cabinets, Wilburs soft breathing through the phone, a gentle song in the background. Catching sight of the bright white plastic in the back corner he crowned in victory and pulled it out. The plastic was delightfully cool in his hands and the metal tip was like a dip in the pool as he pressed it against his temple. 

“I got it Wilbur!” he called out to Wilbur, phone left on speaker on his countertop.

“Great job Toms. Can you take your temperature now and tell we what it says?” Wilbur cooed back to him and he hummed in assent. They waited together in mutual, but comfortable, silence as the thermometer beeped its way through its scan. When it crowed its final sound, Tommy flipped it over in his hand and blearily peered at the screen, his addled brain trying to make sense of the glowing red numbers imprinted there. Oh. Hm. Well that number seems a bit high.

“It says 38.8 degrees. That seems rather high, doesn’t it big man? I guess I am as hot as I always say I am” Tommy snickered. Wilbur didn’t laugh back. That's a shame, he thought, that was a rather good joke.

“Shit...Yeah Toms that is a bit high. I need you to do a few more things for me okay?” A whine tore itself from his throat at the thought. He wanted to sleep. His bones felt heavy and his skin felt too tight and all he wanted to do was curl up in his sheets and fade into the oblivion of dreaming. He voiced this to Wilbur, too tired to even care how childish he sounded. 

“Oh Toms,” voice thick with pity and remorse, Wilbur spoke, “I know. I know you’re tired and I promise you can go to sleep soon, but I need you to do some things so I know you’ll be safe. Doing these will help me help you, okay Toms? Don’t you want that? I know you do.” He did. He really did and he said as much. “Okay Toms, that's good. You are doing so good. I only need a few more things. First can you get a cloth and run it under cool water? Then go back to your bed and put one on your forehead. Okay?”

He could do that. The sink was so close and there was cloth nearby and the thought of cool water on his skin sounded so nice. He could do it. 

“After you do that, I just need to know one more thing before you can go back to sleep. Just one more thing, then you can go back to counting sheep and dreaming of Vikkstar okay?” He giggled at the words and could practically hear Wilbur’s responding smile. For one second the world felt normal, Wilbur and him joking on a call, like the world wasn’t cruel and he wasn’t melting and the house wasn’t empty and his parents weren’t gone halfway around the world without a care for their sick son. 

“Tommy, I just need one more thing from you, and then you can rest okay? I need you to tell where the spare key for your house is, can you do that?” Confusion bubbled in his stomach but the heavy ache and desperate craving for sleep won over. He began to make his way back to his room, through the shadowy hallway and the eerie silence. This was the last thing he needed to do and then he could sleep. And he trusted Wilbur. Wilbur wouldn’t lie to him, not now, not ever. If he asked him for it, it must be for a good reason. 

“It's taped under the potted plant in the green pot on the front porch,” he said jaw nearly popping from the yawn he let out in the middle of it. “But that one only works on the side door, not the front, so make sure you use it there. Can’t make it easy for robbers.” 

“Of course not Toms, you’re too smart for that.” Pleasure curled in his gut and flushed his cheeks a tad more red at the compliment. Getting a compliment from Wilbur could never get old. He’d bask in them forever if he could, in the euphoria of being seen and recognized and then praised for what the looker saw. Especially from someone like Wilbur, talented and smart and funny and _adored_. Everything he wanted to be.  
“Can I go to be now Wilby? I’m, I’m really tired.” His voice cracked as he spoke, a would be embarrassment if he hadn’t poured his heart out a mere twenty minutes earlier in the same call.  
“Yeah Toms, you can go to sleep now. You’ve earned it.” Wilbur responded, voice nearly dripping with care. Tommy was suddenly struck with a thought and a want that hit like a freight train. 

“Can you stay on call with me please? Just until I fall asleep, I, I don’t want to be alone right now.” Silence lingered in the air for a moment and Tommy sucked in a breath, “Sorry’s” and “Don’t worries” and “Forget about it” on the tip of his tongue before Wilbur spoke again.

“Of course Tommy. I’ll stay on the call for as long as you want.” His voice was thick, though Tommy couldn’t understand why. He sounded almost sad, but why would he be sad? His tired brain couldn’t figure it out and he didn’t even have the energy to try. He curled up in his bed, the lighted sheet over him and the cloth cooling his head, drip, drip, dripping on his pillow. He let out a sigh, his achy bones singing with delight, and drifted off to sleep, the only sound being Wilburs familiar breathing down the line and the whirring of his ceiling fan.

\-------------------------- 

Consciousness was a fleeting friend, and one Tommy wasn’t too hyped to greet right now. The throes of sleep were enticing and the warmth around him, once stifling, was more comforting than it had been, a nice embrace further from the normal cold shell of a home he lived in. But something was drawing him out of the cull of sleep. Noise filtered into his tired ears, eyes still pressed close but hearing now open. The sound of footsteps reached him, followed by the mumblings of a low, familiar voice. Wilbur? What was he doing here? No, he couldn’t possibly. He was probably hallucinating, some weird fever dream like he heard people talk about. But the voice continued to sound off and it only got louder and closer. More real. 

“Tommy? You awake bud?” Too close to be fake, too fond to be a dream. He cracked one eye open warily, peering up at the owner of the voice. Wilbur stood at the end of his bed, the bedroom door cracked open behind him. He had a bad slung over his shoulder and another from the local chemists in his hand. He seemed dressed in a mishmash of clothes, long coat over a warm sweater and dark sweatpants, the rare sight of his glasses covering up his eyes with darker than typical eyebags. He’d feel guilty about that, about waking him up and forcing him here without sleep if he wasn’t so surprised. His eyes flickered to his clock on his bed stand. 8 am. 3 and a half hours since their call. The time from Brighton to Nottingham. He’d come all this way for him? Travelled 3 hours in the hours before dawn to see him? Why?

“Wilbur? What? What are you doing here?” His voice cracked pitifully when he spoke, thick from sleep and sickness still clinging to his throat. Wilbur edges closer, a smile tugging on his tired lips. 

“What, you think I’d leave my little brother home alone while he’s sick? Of course not. Who knows what trouble you’d manage to get in if left to your own devices.” Wilbur teased, reaching his bedside and poking him on the nose with a grin. His eyes were terribly sad behind his glasses however. Sad for him? He didn’t understand. He did look pretty pitiful, he presumed, all shaky and sick and sleepy. That must be why. Still, he couldn’t fathom why he’d come all the way here just for him, it didn’t make sense. 

“You came all this way, for me?” 

“Of course I did Toms. I would never let you go through this alone. No one should be alone while they’re sick, especially not a child like you.” His cheeks burned as his words registered and he sat up in bed (shoving down a wince at his body's protest) and opened his mouth.

“Oy! Shut up, I’m not a child! I’m a big man, how dare you, I-”

“There's no shame in being a child Tommy. I know you think there is, and that you always have to be strong but you don’t. I’m sorry that you feel like you have to be tough all the time, it's not fair to you. You are a kid and you should get to be one.” Wilbur's tone brokered no arguments. Tears sprung to his eyes again at the steely look in his veritable brothers eyes, seeing anger but not at him, the only emotion for him being pure love. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t think of anything to respond with, and he wasn’t sure he even could with the tears in his eyes and stinging in his throat. Fucking hell. Fucking sappy bitch making him feel things, taking advantage of his sick state and shit. 

“Thanks, y’know, for coming, I guess. You didn’t have to. But I, uh, I do appreciate it.” 

“I know you do, Toms. You don’t have to thank me. Now go back to sleep okay? You need rest to get better. By the time you wake up I’ll have some soup ready with some Dayquil on the side and we can watch some movies or some old Techno videos. Whatever you want. Sound good buddy?”

“Yeah, that sounds great big man...thanks.” Wilbur smiled and ruffled his hair. Tommy bit down a smile and leaned into the touch before melting back into his pillow. Wilbur tugged up his blankets and tucked them around him before turning to leave the room, and suddenly a panic pressed on Tommy's chest so hard he could barely breathe. 

“Wait!” he shouted, the call tearing out of his tender throat, followed by a cough that hurt even worse. Wilbur whirled around, concern etched in his face, plain to see.

“Are you okay? Do you need something? Is something wrong?”

“Can you stay please? Just until I fall asleep, it’s just, it's been so long since I didn’t go to sleep alone.” Wilbur froze in place, face crumbling for a moment before back in a soft smile, aimed just at him. 

“Of course I’ll stay buddy,” He walked back over and sat perched on the edge of his bed and began to comb his hand through his sleep mussed hair again. Tommy couldn’t help but smile at the feeling and the sentiment. He felt safer than he had in years, and sleep was quickly coming up to greet him. As he sank back into the warm embrace he felt a feather light kiss on his forehead and heard one last thing before his senses slept too. “Have a good sleep Toms, I love you” 

**Author's Note:**

> so here's the sequel i didn't think i'd write haha  
> i did not expect the fic i wrote for ss to be my most popular, but turns out people really love tommyinnit h/c. who would have thought? I got struck suddenly by inspiration for this and wrote most of it in a haze at 1 am, hope you all enjoy!  
> its always fun to get into Tommys headspace, and i hope i did a good job :-)


End file.
